Even in the dingy twin bed hotel room, the thick air was permeated with salt.

It was dark. The boards of the floor creaked like the hull of a dilapidated ship. In regards to the town, it wouldn't be a surprise if it was the hull of a dilapidated ship. Dusk had slowly eased its dark tentacles through the sky, swirling an inky blue. It would have been beautiful if it weren't for the orange tint of destruction that tinted its feet.

Bilgewater was at war.

The recent death of Gangplank was an unprecedented event. Champions scuffling out of the Institute of War wasn't rare, if not common. Summoners intervened the best they could, but their recent controversial involvement in Kalamanda had all of Valoran questioning their omnipotence, fearing their power. Civil unrest was a possibility the Institute couldn't afford; favor from the people, after all, was the only reason why the League existed.

So, like parents trusting pre-pubescent children, they trusted that Champions could take care of themselves, leaving them to their own devices.

But they never expected that their trust would be misplaced. They didn't expect the wild card called Twisted Fate.

The moment Gangplank's ship erupted into a spectacular pillar of flames, the news sped through arcane avenues and fiber optic cables into the Institute's hands.

It didn't take long before the news spread into other hands across Valoran. As soon as the fighting ensued, the entire continent was suddenly in the know.

News outlets from the more developed cities reported on the action, keeping a safe distance away with hovering probe drones. Spies from the major city states slinked into crowds and alleys, seeking any potential leverage for their respective powers. As for the Institute, the Summoners stayed put, twiddling their thumbs, the suspicious eyes of the people watching their every move.

What the public or even the highest-ranking intelligence agencies didn't know, was that the Institute of War still had their interests involved. True to their word, Summoners were nowhere to be found, regardless of the destruction and warfare engulfing Bilgewater. But in that dingy, creaky room, two agents of the Institute sat. Waiting.

Akali peeked through a blind of the shuttered windows, allowing a sliver of orange onto the peeling, wallpapered wall.

A loud, annoyed groan sounded behind her, followed by the violent squeak of rusty bed springs as a body fell upon them unceremoniously.

"Gods, I don't want to be here…"

Akali turned away from her surveyance of the outside world, turning towards the lazing man on the bed.

"Quit your whining. If I didn't know better I'd think you were the teenager," she said, stoic green eyes the only expressive feature on her masked face.

"Ah, shut up, Stockings. You're not any better. It's not like you want to be here any more than I do. I bet you have better ways to spend your time. Like. Training, and sparring, and meditating, and uh…whatever you Kinkou do." the figure said, exasperated.

"We do that which must be done."

"And there you go again, using one of your Ionian proverbs to retort."

Akali herself was getting exasperated from the man's whiny complaining.

"You willingly signed yourself to become a Champion, didn't you? Didn't you understand all the responsibilities that entails?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just didn't expect to be put into guard duty." the figure waved her off. He sat up, his voice still a little muffled through the bandana around his face. He finally looked up at Akali, blue eyes buried in the furrow of his brow, blond hair tucked beneath the goggles on his head. "Guard duty with you again, no less."

Akali broke their gaze, turning towards the window again.

"Not that I mind, of course," he quickly said. This was their third assignment together. From their first mission a sort of casual correspondence had grown between them, something Akali was unfamiliar with.

The man stood and joined Akali at the window, putting an arm against the wall as his own eyes scanned the horizon. The battle was getting closer.

The man looked over at Akali, his eyes obviously bored. He looked over her teenage features, furtively allowing his gaze to slip over the smoothness of her arms, daring to whisk over whatever skin was exposed from the confined of her black outfit. The leggings that earned her his nickname were also black.

He grinned before pulling down his mask and reached over to pull down hers with a wink.

"No need for these in here, Stockings. I've kinda gotten used to your ugly mug anyway."

Akali apprehensively jolted before relaxing, looking back at him with a soft glare before fixing her attention outside again.

"Has anyone ever told you to grow up, Ezreal?"

He chuckled, a lock of his blond knocked from its place.

"Has anyone told you to stop growing up so fast?"

It had been a few months since he had last seen her. Interestingly enough, it was also under very similar circumstances: an insurgent uprising in the snows of Freljord. The Institute had sent them there with the same objective to protect the runic node they had positioned there. Runic nodes had been installed across the continent, secretly embedded inside storefronts, inns, "abandoned" shacks. They were the Institute's veins. Miniature nexuses that generated subtle mana fields.

Regardless of whatever the Institute assigned them to protect, it was still strange to Ezreal. Whatever had motivated them to pair up a Piltoverian explorer and an Ionian shinobi was beyond him. Regardless, it was his duty (and obligation) to go, so he did.

And again, they had been sent with masks. The public, as usual, needed to be kept in the dark.

Akali gave him a roll of her eyes.

"Seriously. How old are you, Stockings? 14? 15?"

"Almost 16."

"There we go. This…" Ezreal said, indicating with a sweep of hand, "…this life, it shouldn't be for you. Not yet anyway. You're always so…stoic. Loosen up a little."

Akali didn't want to encourage him, but she grinned.

"You just haven't seen me out of work," she said.

Ezreal chuckled.

In a moment's notice, that grin was wiped off of her lips. The mumblings of rifles and groans of explosives was close. That flowering red of the sky was a mere block away. It wouldn't be long until the fight was under the hotel room's window, the combatants knocking on the door for loot and shelter.

Akali flinched when Ezreal reached over to replace her mask. She looked over at him and his eyes were surprisingly stern. Even so, she could still see a hint of a grin in the corners of his eyes.

"Burden of a Champion, eh, Stockings?"

She smiled through her mask.

"Burden of a Champion."


This occurs about a year or so before Mutual Benefits.